


Pay this Hell in me Tonight

by bofurrific



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (no I'm not), Brock is in love with the soldier, Dubious Consent, I know, I love his character and I have no shame, I'm Sorry, I've reserved my handbasket to hell, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, also yes again with the killers, and the 5+1, but he doesn't want to be gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2041848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hydra Trash Meme Fill:</p>
<p>He shifts and ignores the swelling behind his zipper, waves his men away when they offer the soldier up to him, a feast, a sacrificial lamb, a temptation he can’t give in to.</p>
<p>(Also known as: Brock doesn't partake in fucking the soldier because he's gay and doesn't want to admit it, so he beats him up instead. When they're alone, however, he fucks him sweetly.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pay this Hell in me Tonight

Brock's gotten good at laughing the "parties" off. The violence he can handle, leaving quick-healing bruises spreading like ink across the soldier's skin, the subtle crunch of bones breaking under his fists or his knees. And afterwards, when his team pins the asset down and makes him squeal on their cocks, he hangs back and pretends he isn't staring at those pretty red lips, stretched wide and abused, that he doesn't want to lick away the streak of blood dripping down the soldier's chin. He shifts and ignores the swelling behind his zipper, waves his men away when they offer the soldier up to him, a feast, a sacrificial lamb, a temptation he can't give in to.

 

1\.   
  
The first time S.T.R.I.K.E. is led to an empty room and presented the asset, already stripped bare and kneeling, Brock thinks it's a joke. They all know about the spoils of war have participated themselves with desperate village girls in nameless countries, but the soldier is a weapon, not a whore. 

He doesn't look like either, naked and on his knees on the cold concrete of the floor. He doesn't look like anything and it still manages to take Brock's breath away, a sudden seizing of ice in his lungs and straight down his cock. 

"We can do anything we want to him?" He croaks, feeling like he is on fire and falling through ice at once, and when Pierce, smirking behind his glasses like he fucking knows, bastard that he is, gives him a nod, he stalks forward, ripping at his belt. He doesn't take his cock out like everyone expects, though he is traitorously stiff beneath his clothes, instead bringing the belt in an arc down across the asset's shoulders. He doesn't stop until flood flecks the floor and he can't catch his breath. The asset hasn't moved and Brock wants to press against his raw back and trace the welts with his tongue. He stumbles away, clenches his trembling hands into fists, and lets his men take their turn.

They are less interested in making the soldier bleed, hands tangled viciously in his hair, cocks gagging his throat, stringing up him, spit-roasted between two of them and groaning. Brock makes himself watch and bites the meaty flesh of his palm until his own blood spills hot and coppery across his tongue.

 

2. 

It turns into a routine of sorts, a reward when they excel at their missions. The men perk up, grinning and winking at one another when they hear the sound of the soldier's footsteps, the clinking of the chain lock around the door, and Brock grumbles and calls them Pavlov's dogs, pretending the sound doesn't affect him all the same: a cold dread spreading through in his chest, icy and sharp around his lungs, a fire that sears and pools low in his stomach; he is at war within himself, with more casualties than any time he served with HYDRA.

Always there is an excuse on his tongue: he's too exhausted to give a shit, he doesn't know how clean they keep the soldier and doesn't want to catch something. Sometimes he tells them it's the violence he likes, can't use it on some pretty little thing he meets in a bar, and they believe him with the reputation he's already built up. Once he jokes that he's just being a good leader, letting his men take the spoils. They cheer for him and offer to be him a round or twelve and his smile is sour in his gut.

Brock stands in the corner as the team gets to work, stripping the asset and pushing him down, passing him between them like a blunt in a circle of pre-teens at their first party. And the soldier allows them to, doesn’t make a sound unless they demand it from him. Brock wishes they wouldn’t; that mouth opens, fills the room with wet pants and throaty groans and sweet high-pitched whines and it’s all Brock can do to keep himself grounded, dick pulsing steadily and untouched between his legs.

 

3. 

S.T.R.I.K.E. changes and evolves, they lose good men and gain new recruits. They don’t get why Brock is ok with, eager even, to drive his fist into the soldier’s face, to slam his boot against his ribs and bitch slap that red red mouth with his gun, but won’t even choke the soldier on his cock, let alone fuck him. They’re young-blooded and starry-eyed and can’t imagine how anyone would pass on the chance to have the Winter Soldier himself as pliant as a rag doll and filthy as a two-bit whore.

“What’s the matter, Boss?” Some nameless greenhorn who won’t last a month sneers, “He not pretty enough for you?” And the soldier _looks_ at him when the kid says it and Brock isn’t sure his face is as blank as he wants it to be. He meets those fucking eyes and can’t stop himself from licking his lips, pulse pounding in his ears, and thrumming down his spine. Mouth dry, he manages a hoarse laugh, giving the new recruit a less-than-gentle shove and makes a comment about needing a real pussy around his cock, more tits than just his imagination.

The laughter that follows leaves a dusty taste in his mouth. The asset never looks away when they throw him to the floor and take him, eyes boring holes in Brock’s head and his chest and he swallows thickly around the lump of arousal and shame that’s lodged there. The soldier takes to staring him down every time the team is brought to the room with him. Brock hits him harder, spits and snarls and makes him bleed, but it doesn’t deter him. Brock goes home and dreams of those fucking eyes, among other things he can’t mention.

 

4. 

When Brock Rumlow was fifteen, he realized he was in love with a boy on his football team. His name was Thomas Kolter, two years Brock’s senior, with those all-American good looks that always got him out of trouble, -the kind the soldier could have had, once upon a time- all soft dark hair and sweet blue eyes. Brock was mesmerized; Brock was terrified. And the worst part was that Thomas seemed to return his ridiculous affections.

Brock’s dad wasn’t the nicest guy in the world and he’d made it pretty clear how he felt about sick fag fucks and what should be done about them. Thomas kissed Brock in the locker room and his heart stopped in chest. He didn’t want to kiss anyone but Thomas for as long as he lived, but where he should have felt warm and loved, an icicle beat in his chest. It was _wrong_ and it was _weak_ and _sick_ and he _couldn’t do this._

Pulling away from the kiss was the last thing Brock wanted to do, but instead he drew back his fist and painted Thomas’ teeth red with blood. That first hit opened something in him, a black hole expanding in chest until he was swallowed up in it; he didn’t stop until three upperclassman were ripping him away and Thomas’ face was a pulpy mess of blood and flesh. People were screaming and Thomas was just lying there on the floor and Brock couldn’t stop staring at what he’d done.

They kicked him out of school and he expected his dad to skin him alive, but the man just handed him a beer and told him it was good to keep the fags in line.

Brock thinks about Thomas sometimes, when Winter is looking at him like that and wonders what his lips taste like smeared with blood.

 

5. 

Women just don’t do it for Brock. He can get it up and he can fuck them, enough to keep any suspicions at bay, enough to keep the sick need twisting in his gut bottled there, but nights of girls with painted lips and full round tits leave him feeling unsatisfied even after he spills in them. Sometimes he talks them into letting him fuck them in the ass but he’s so aware of the gentle curve of their hips, their pretty plastic nails clutching his hair and too-high voices whimpering in his hear. It’s not enough.

Brock lies in bed at night, eyes clenched shut and hand wrapped with a punishing grip around his stubborn cock. The more he tries not to think of the asset, tries to bring up images of the girls he’s brought home from the bars, the more the soldier pushes to the forefront of his mind. Brock thinks about the blood they leave on the soldier’s skin, from whips and slaps and quick slips of the knife, thinks about kissing every one of his marks and tasting him. Violence is easy and it gets him off when he’s desperate but sometimes…. Sometimes his traitorous mind conjures up softer dreams.

Brock tugs his dick with brutal strokes and licks his lips, imagines wrapping his mouth around the soldier’s cock, imagines makes him moan and sob with something other than pain. Imagines spending a day, a weekend, pressing his mouth to every inch of skin he could find, spreading the soldier open on his cock and conducting a fucking symphony of sounds, drawing them from the asset’s mouth. Even worse, sometimes he gets his fingers wet and trails them down, under his cock and his balls and circles his own entrance. Brock wonders what it would be like to taken, to have his hollowness filled by the soldier and comes so hard he blacks out.

 

+1 

Temptation is a cruel thing and Brock is never as strong as he wants to be.

They’re alone in the safehouse, Brock and the soldier, who sits calmly on the floor by his feet and waits for orders. He looks up at Brock and he hasn’t even done anything, but those fucking _eyes_ , and suddenly Brock is leaning in and pressing their mouths together. It’s not how it’s done, no savage violence, just a softly desperate kiss, and the soldier doesn’t know how to react. Brock doesn’t really either, has no idea what he’s doing and he pulls the asset into the bedroom and peels back the layers of armor he wears. He kisses every inch of skin as he reveals it, whispers of apologies dropped in the press of lips for all the marks he’s left before now. The soldier lets him do as he pleases and Brock pretends he’s enjoying it just as much.

Wasting no time, Brock drops to his knees and takes the soldier’s cock, always hard no matter how cruel they are to him, between his lips. He is clumsy and inexperienced but it draws the noises he craves from the asset’s lips, a sharp gasp and a throaty moan and it doesn’t take long at all before, unused to pleasure of any sort, the soldier is coming in his mouth. Brock swallows despite the taste and opens him up with tender fingers, fucks him until he comes again, spilling between them as Brock spills himself inside.

Brock rocks himself down in the asset’s lap, splits himself open on the soldier’s cock and wants to sob for how _full_ he feels, that void Thomas Kolter left filled up just a bit, so good it fucking _hurts_.

But the mission ends and Brock drags the soldier back to base where the rest of the team is waiting to claim their reward. And like nothing happened, Brock throws a punch.

It’s not like the soldier will remember.


End file.
